Shards of Time
by eoriel
Summary: One man's obsession with the past will become somewhat of a problem for another.


Shards of Time

Horse. Soap. Well-oiled leather.

Heavy footsteps. Well-fed male. Not used to discretion.

It was him.

He had been waiting for the son of Gondor. Waiting here, because he knew Boromir would pass this way again. Waiting here, because not many men could resist the power of the shards of Narsil.

Worn leather boots, scuffing the floors of the House of Elrond, stopped close behind him. He waited, inhaling, remembering the first time he had caught Boromir's scent; what it had done to him then, what it was doing to him now. The book he had then had trembled slightly. The book he had now stayed steady, but only just. He pretended to read the Elvish on the page. He attempted to ignore the man standing behind him, close enough to feel but not to touch.

"Reading again, are we?" his rough voice asked, a hint of arrogance in the teasing. "The same book, then, or have you finished the last tome and begun another long, dusty tale?"

Aragorn smiled. "A new tale for a new day."

He closed the book, turning to look up at Boromir. His honeyed hair was golden in the ethereal autumn of Rivendell, the russet and grey of his tunic perfect compliments to the season. "And you? Have you come to behold the shards of Narsil, or perhaps this is an excuse to interrupt me?"

Boromir beamed, a wide, glowing, moon smile that bespoke of friendship, or perhaps something else. "I think I have found a true companion in you, my friend." He squeezed the Ranger's shoulder as he took a place beside him on the bench.

"A brother, perhaps?" Aragorn asked with a tilt of his head, the corner of his mouth turned up slightly.

"No, my friend, something more." Boromir clapped him on the knee. "Something more."

The small dimple in Aragorn's cheek disappeared. He was not sure he should be smiling.

The silver-green light drifting in through filters of leaves and glass began to turn everything into a dream. The events of the entire day were suddenly forgettable. He could not remember what they had for breakfast. He did not care about the contents of any conversation made at the table. He could not recall when he had bathed.

He could, however, tell exactly what Boromir had indulged in for breakfast, where he had spent his morning, and how recently he had come out of the bath by the smell on his clothes, the smell of his skin, the neat trim of his beard around soft lips beckoning to be kissed.

Aragorn cleared his throat, looking away. The book, he discovered, could be useful for more than reading.

Boromir patted his knee once more, sensing his friend's discomfort, rising to look upon ancient, broken Narsil, lying in its place of reverence. Like a child full of wonder at some hero's door, he gingerly traced the lines of the blade with his finger, daring to touch it again, silently apologizing for his clumsiness before. Behind him, Isildur knelt, frozen in time as he struck the mighty blow, ever watching his father's sword, ever waiting its next keeper.

The silence of Imladris impressed itself upon both men, for they were still a long while: Boromir in admiration of the Blade That Was Broken, Aragorn in admiration of Boromir. His watchful eyes ignored the book laid open in front of them. One arm ignored the boundaries of the bench he sat upon. Several thoughts ignored the proprieties of polite company.

It was the Son of Gondor that broke the deep quiet of the afternoon with a whisper edged with awe. "Broken or no, it is still a mighty blade."

"That it is," Aragorn replied. There was no need for further comment. The sword itself said everything that could be said.

When he realized he was utterly lost amongst the contents of his book, Aragorn stood, leaving the slim volume on the bench, standing in Boromir's shadow, perhaps closer than he should have. He inhaled, bowing his head to Boromir's shoulder, a long deep breath. There was something in amongst everything else, some scent that was distinctly his own. It was intoxicating. Aragorn inhaled again, sharply. It was unmistakeably arousing.

Boromir froze, his hand on the broken hilt, as Aragorn reached around him and grasped it with his own. Their fingers coyly entwined, their bodies pressed against one another, their eyes finally met. The dream they had been standing in fell down around them, dissolved under the weight of passion.

There was no resistance when Aragorn leaned in, sliding his fingers up a taunt forearm, turning his body. Boromir shifted, opening his arms to the Ranger, inviting him closer. Aragorn reached into the clean, sweet-smelling mess of sandy hair at the nape of his friend's neck, grasping a generous fistful. Every thought of anything except the man in his arms vanished, and suddenly, the need was overwhelming.

Aragorn crushed his lips into Boromir's, a fierce, dominating kiss, pushing the other man back into the resting place of Narsil, bending him back over the shards.

Surprised, Boromir spread his fingers wide, grabbing hold of Aragorn, his own desire taking control. Dimly, he heard a clatter on his right. As he bit a ripe lip that was not his own, he cursed inwardly.

He had dropped Narsil yet again.


End file.
